I can't help but think about all of Grandpa's books I saw in La Union.

My maternal grandfather used to be a teacher and a professor in education. He also liked to read a lot in different topics ranging from literature to philosophy. After he retired, he tended to read and write about religion, and brought this pastime to the States where he currently lives with my grandma and other relatives.

Their distant relatives and former tenants are now living in their old family house, and the way they manage the house tends towards practicality rather than preservation of my grandparents' aesthetic tastes. The kitchen has been extended to fit in half the house and the garden that I remember took so much effort to take care of was mostly mowed down. The most striking difference I perceived was the shelves and endless shelves of books that my grandfather owned now dusty like old family guardians lined up in a corner of the house that's so dark I couldn't see the titles.

I wouldn't know what he would think about how his collection is stored like that now, or about how I rummaged through them and brought some of them home. As one of the very few relatives who reads, I felt a vague sense of responsibility to somehow use and preserve at least a little of what he saved. (The rest of the books there, photocopies of books on spirituality, I can't really see myself using and keeping in the future, sorry Grandpa.)